Kisses
by Slightly2Loud
Summary: As Romano grew older, the kisses Spain gave him never changed, but his feelings did. And Spain was completely oblivious of it, as always. Oneshot, Spamano


**Ciao!**

**So, guys, about my lack of updating. I'm a bitch, basically. I am too lazy to go through the whole process of hauling my ass to the clubhouse, uploading a heapload of stories, and going back home. Procrastinate is my word of month. I'm currently working on a chapter story (GerIta/Spamano and a bunch of others), so if you like my load of oneshots that I produce to cover up the fact that I have problems with dedication, then I'm sorry. I'm really getting into this new story!**

**Anyway, more meaningless Spamano shit. I need to try writing M, but I just go all red and squeamish when I try. I'm a wuss.**

**x Rachel**

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I'd kissed Spain a lot.

That was funny, for a start. I never kissed anyone really – fratello sometimes, Grandpa before he went away, Belgium when she came to visit – but I kissed Spain a lot. Veneziano was a moron. He kissed everyone; Grandpa, me, Hungary, Austria, Prussia, Liechtenstein, Potato Bastard. He kissed people like it was nothing. I didn't kiss many people, but I did kiss Spain.

When I was very, very little, Spain would come and tuck me into bed every night. He'd read me a story, smile at me and kiss me very softly on the head, and whisper 'Night-night, mi tomate'. It was always my favourite part of going to sleep, a kind of reassurance that Spain wasn't after my money, or my land, that he loved me as a father should love his son. That was the first kind of kiss.

Then I began to grow up. I was still a child, but I wasn't a baby any more. Spain didn't need to tuck me in at night; I could do that myself. I'd change, brush my teeth and call in to Spain's bedroom on my way past. I'd always struggle, but he'd always manage to pick me up and kiss me on the cheek before I went to sleep. I know I struggled, but in a way it was my still my favourite part of bedtime.

Eventually, I grew into a teenager. I didn't call in on Spain, didn't need tucking in, didn't need a kiss. But he'd always corner me before I left the dinner table and go 'Come on Lovi, where's my kiss?' and I'd be forced to kiss him on the cheek to get past.

My friends at school thought it was a bit weird. They told me it was strange, that no-one kissed their dads anymore. I had to explain that he was technically my adopted older brother, but they still didn't understand. Neither did I. With every kiss I began to think less of him as my dad.

Then one day I came home from school and wandered into the bathroom. The idiot had forgotten to lock the door; I walked in to find Spain in the shower. I didn't immediately run out though, like I had done as a child. I stared at him for a few moments, wide-eyed, before he turned around and noticed me.

"Lovi! Get out!" he yelled, and I snapped out of my daze and ran.

Later, at dinner, we sat in silence.

"Um, Romano, listen, I'm sorry about that," he apologised. I shook my head, pushing my plate away.

"It was nothing," I said. "Don't worry. I think I'll get to bed early tonight." I leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, like always, but he moved, and I accidentally caught his lips. I went bright red, pulled away and ran off to my room.

I thought about it that night. A kiss on the lips. Well, brothers kissed each other on the lips all the time, right? Christ, Veneziano kissed me on the lips enough for me to know that. But then… why didn't it feel the same? Why did it feel like… something more?

The next night was worse. He made me kiss him on the cheek that night, but I couldn't help but wish it had been those beautiful lips instead.

I was lusting after my brother, and it didn't take a genius to figure out how wrong that was.

I needed to get away from Spain. I called up fratello, and he agreed to come with me back home, to start up our own country again. I told Spain what I was doing, and he nodded and said that it was maybe for the best. I packed my bags, tidied away my room and set up to leave in the morning. Spain woke up early to see me off, and kissed me once before I left, quickly, softly on the lips. The entire time I thought to myself it's just a kiss, it's just a kiss, it's just a kiss. And it was.

I never visited him while we were building up Italy again. I focused hard on building the country up better than before, setting up buildings and houses and farmland for the people; I was too concerned about my work to think about Spain.

Years and years later, fratello ran off to go meet up with Potato Bastard and Sushi Bastard again, and left me at home. I decided to go visit Spain again. I'd had time to sort myself out. I was no longer a messed-up, angry teenager. I was a fully grown, independent young man, and I certainly didn't want Spain again. I was completely over that.

I pulled up at the door, and was immediately greeted by a grinning Spaniard, who ran out of the house and flung his arms around me, before holding me by the shoulders and looking me up and down.

"Lovi, you've really grown!" he said. "You don't look like you used to." He sounded a little sad and a little scared as he said the last words.

I elbowed him. "Of course I don't. That's the purpose of growing up, you know." He laughed, shook his head and put an arm around me.

He was a little strange towards me during the day. I searched through the house, trying to find all my childhood memories, rooms I'd loved, places I'd hid in, things like that, and he followed, watching me silently. When dinner came we sat in the places we'd always sat at while I was growing up. He'd cooked pasta with tomato sauce and I ate it ravenously, while he sat and watched. Eventually, I snapped.

"What is it?" I yelled. "You've just stared at me for all of today, just watching me. What is it?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Lovi," he apologised, and I found I couldn't stay mad at him. "It's just, I can't believe how much you've changed. You left here as a teenager, and you've come back so different. I guess I didn't think you'd ever grow up this fast. It's kind of scary."

I laughed.

"Well, get used to it. I'm not gonna grow downwards, you know," I scoffed, and he laughed too and stood up. I stood up too.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he said, and I nodded, and turned.

"Lovi?"

I turned back again. "Yeah?"

"Would you mind… giving me a kiss?" he asked carefully. I rolled my eyes, and leaned forward to give him a kiss. I was over this, I was sure of it, and just to prove it I kissed him deliberately on the lips.

The shock I felt I hadn't expected. A spark of electricity went down my spine, and I jumped a little. I didn't remember this. I had kissed Spain thousands of times, but it had never felt so… good.

He had frozen too. We watched each other carefully, contemplating the next move. And suddenly, I realised. I was never going to overcome this… _thing _I had for Spain unless I fully grasped it. I was never going to get over him unless there was something to get over.

I looked over at Spain, and made up my mind, tackling him to the ground and kissing him passionately. I caught him off guard, but a second later he had flipped me over and was kissing me back, pressing his lips against mine with more need and force than I'd ever have expected. I lost myself, unable to think of anything but him.

That was that, then. There was no way I was getting over _this._

He pulled his lips away from mine, and looked down into my eyes while I panted.

"Lovi… is this right?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still holding my wrists pinned down to the tiled floor. I couldn't think.

"No… Yes… oh God, I don't care anymore," I breathed. "I just need you."

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips against mine again, and it was perfect. He pulled his mouth away to kiss my eyelids, my cheeks, my chin, my neck, while I moaned. Then he pulled his lips back up to mine.

And I realised.

The kisses had always meant something more to me.

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**Not impressed? Neither am I. I need to stop reading Sweet Valley High.**

**Like? Hate? Know anything fun to do in 45 degrees Celcius when you're Irish and hate the sun (even though your father insists you're not albino)?**

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